


Stories We Don't Want to Tell

by tracinginthesand



Series: Notebook Stories [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: A tiny bit, Angst, Blow Jobs, But not heavy, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, M/M, Non-Famous Louis, One Night Stands, Suspenders and Red Pants Louis, They're playing around, Tour Bus Sex, University Student Louis, niall is the best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 19:03:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11675196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tracinginthesand/pseuds/tracinginthesand
Summary: Louis is the best friend ever. Bar none. He’s convinced. He allows himself to be dragged along to boy band concerts. “As if you haven’t danced around my room to their music multiple times, Louis,” Eleanor says, like that settles anything.





	Stories We Don't Want to Tell

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a fool for cute. I have Ideas for what happens next. I run on comments and sunshine, so let me know if you'd like to see more of them.

Louis is the best friend ever. Bar none. He’s convinced. He allows himself to be dragged along to boy band concerts. “As _if_ you haven’t danced around my room to their music _multiple times_ , Louis,” Eleanor says, like that settles anything.

“There is a difference between dancing around in the privacy of one’s own best friend’s dorm room and going to a concert, _Eleanor_. Where I will be only one in a sea of screaming fans dreaming of our eyes meeting Liam’s from the front row of the GA floor section and it will be love, love forever. I can't take that kind of competition.”

“Why did you agree to go, if you were just going to be obnoxious the whole time?”

Louis snickers. “We’ll have fun. I promise.”

 

The concert is amazing. Louis is completely willing to admit that. He’s surrounded by girls he doesn’t know, he’s having a dandy time, and they did actually make it right in front by the stage. He likes One Direction’s music, even if he feels like it’s missing something. Eleanor gets them backstage afterwards—and so now he’s in a room. Hanging out, with a bunch of other people. There’s a table of snacks. Everyone’s laughing and talking, Eleanor deep in conversation with Liam’s girlfriend, who seems quite nice. He feels a little more out of place now than he did on the floor. His collared shirt is wilting from the dancing, his suspenders are dangling around his thighs, and he’s sure his quiff is a wreck. But his red skinnies are still painted on, and he’s still him, fuck’s sake.

And then the band comes in. There are cheers, but no screams as they tumble through the door in a happy, multi-limbed pile of boybanders. The vibe is more like the cast parties Louis’s been going to his whole life. Liam immediately goes to say hi to his girlfriend, and thus Eleanor. It’s funny to see them off stage, normal-sized without the jumbotrons and aura of utter desirability surrounding them. It causes a flutter in Louis—like these are his boys, and he wants to make sure they’re okay. Stupid. He’s older than all of them, anyway.

“Not sure I know you, mate,” someone says, to his left, and he turns, sticking his hand out automatically—only it’s Niall Horan. He’s clearly wired, but he has tired eyes and wary tension in his expression as he shakes Louis’s hand.

“Yeah, nah. My best friend got us back here, guess she’s got a class with Liam’s girlfriend at uni, so. Sick show, by the way. Liked it a lot.”

“What class?” Niall asks, and Louis is suddenly aware this is a test. He narrows his eyes, because he’s _not_ one of those people. He doesn’t quite know who those people might be, but he’s sure there are people who lie to get close enough to touch. The ones who lie, and hang on, wanting favors and autographs and access. And whatever else. He draws himself up to his full (fine, not very impressive, but it’ll get the job done) height.

“Digital Fashion Marketing. It’s an overview of online advertising techniques and engagement strategies, but a lot of it has to do with creating targeted consumer input opportunities, leveraging individualized branding, things like that.” As he speaks, Niall’s face brightens. He’s outright laughing by the end.

“All right, all right, retract your claws. Just had to check, yeah? Come and meet the lads.”

This is how Louis finds himself telling a frankly ridiculous story about a summer stock production of Guys & Dolls gone wrong to three-quarters of the biggest pop act in the world. Niall and Liam are laughing, and Zayn is hiding a smile with his hand. Their guitarist, Sandy, is howling. And then Harry Styles walks in, clearly looking around for the source of the hilarity. Their eyes meet, and Harry falters, walking sideways a little. And Louis will be remembering how _that_ feels for a good long while, one of the most wanted boys in the world staggering because of _his_ sharp-toothed, welcoming grin.

“H, you have to come meet Louis,” Niall says, waving him over. Harry approaches carefully, smile open and curious. Louis has the sudden urge to wrap him up and run away, so he’ll never lose that look, never get jaded and cynical, never have his heart broken. _I wouldn’t break your heart_ , he thinks. _Never once_.

Harry trips when he gets close, stumbling hard into the arm of the couch Louis is currently perching on. “Oops,” he says, smiling wider, as if he knows that his clumsiness is adorable. As if he knows that everything about him is completely endearing, instantly.

“Hi.” Louis knows he sounds fond. Too fond, probably. The way he’d sound if Harry was his best friend, or his boyfriend since year ten. If they’ve been sharing a flat and secrets for years. Definitely too fond. But Harry’s looking up at him, giant green eyes practically glowing with pleasure Louis doesn’t understand, except maybe he does, because he’s so pleased, himself.

“M’Harry.”

“Yeah? What do you do ‘round here? One of the roadies, maybe? You might be a stylist, but I doubt it.”

Harry pouts at him. “Why not?”

“That outfit is a crime against humanity,” Louis says. “You look like you’re being dragged to dinner at your mum’s best friend’s house, not performing onstage in front of many thousands of people.”

“I know,” Harry sighs, and the turn of his mouth makes Louis feel guilty, because he’s clearly stepped on a nerve and he didn’t mean to, and Harry ought to always be smiling if he wants to be. He’s that sort of person. So Louis offers him something to smile about, tries to drag him away from whatever train of thought he’s boarded because of Louis’s stupid joke.

“But, no, wait, I think I recognize you. You work at the coffeeshop down the road, do you?”

Harry raises an eyebrow, leaning in a little. “Yeah, I do. You’ve caught me out.”

“You work in a coffeeshop, and I study in there all the time. You always put cream in my tea instead of milk because you have a wild crush on me. I actually prefer milk, but never say anything because you’re cute, and you bring me refills without my asking.” Louis doesn’t know where this bravado is coming from. It’s one thing to play these games at parties when he’s bored and wants to pull, but he’s backstage at a concert, and he’s ready for this to go sour at any second—

“Of course I do. Wouldn’t want you to run out of tea. Besides, it’s an excuse to talk to you. Our hands brushed the other day and I nearly came right there.”

The hairs on Louis’s arms stands up. Harry is teasing him, sure, but he’s also playing along. “I didn’t notice,” he says. His throat feels suddenly dry.

“You never do.” Harry’s gaze turns downright wistful. “You never notice.”

“That’s not true,” Louis says, reaching out and catching Harry’s wrist. It feels like lightning. “I always notice you, every time. All those curls. Why do you think I keep coming back?”

“Well…” Harry licks his lips, looks down at where their skin is touching. When he meets Louis’s eyes again, he’s got a glint in his eyes. Barely contained delight. “I know it’s not because of my ass in these jeans.”

The tension between them breaks into a hundred pieces from their laughing. It wasn’t that funny, but Louis can’t help it. Harry’s so proud of himself for bringing it back around, and Louis can’t begrudge him a second of that, would _never_.

Harry plops down on the couch, presses close to his side, and _now_ Louis is in hell. Harry is warm, the energy from performing pulsing through his body along with the weariness creeping in around the edges as the night goes on. At some point Harry got hold of Louis’s suspenders, looping one of them around his arm twice while he tells a story, rubbing the elastic between his fingertips. The sight of his bitten-down nails makes Louis hurt inside, make him want to tell Harry he can hold on as much as he needs. Louis really needs to piss, but he doesn’t want to move. “We hardly ever get to do this,” he tells Louis, gesturing around at the party going on around them. “Usually have to run back to the hotel or the tour buses to get to the next place. But we’re playing here a few nights, so.” He smiles contentedly. “Nice seeing everyone having a good time.”

It’s getting on a little, and Louis knows his time with this beautiful boy is ending. It has to. He’s sure about a few different things—both that Harry is into him and that Harry should not be into him. There are a few handlers in the room, and they keep giving him assessing looks. Eleanor, too, but she’s too distracted to do anything about the massive fool Louis is making of himself. He’s not a groupie. This isn’t something he _does_. It’s just… Harry. Laughing and teasing, gentle with Zayn, providing context for all their stories for Louis like it matters, like Louis is ever going to see them again.

Finally, he can’t avoid the needs of his traitorous body any longer, and disentangles himself from Harry.

“Are you leaving?” The cherubic demon asks, grabbing for Louis’s arm and catching a handful of his sleeve.

“Just have to go to the toilets, love,” Louis says, much more gently than he should. But Harry seems a little frantic at the notion, and he slides a look at his handlers. It suddenly occurs to Louis that Harry is frightened of them, and while he wants to dismiss that as a product of a little too much alcohol, he knows how sober he is and how his instincts about these things are usually right. “I’ll be right back,” he promises, and Harry bites his lip, nodding. But there’s no smile, and Louis knows something unpleasant is about to happen.

He’s proved correct yet again when he emerges from the toilets and one of them is waiting for him. One of the handlers, a businesslike woman, makes a show of consulting a clipboard as he comes back to the green room.

“Louis, is it? I’m afraid we can’t have you coming back in. Your inappropriately familiar behavior is making my clients uncomfortable. We have a car waiting for you downstairs that will take you wherever you want to go.”

“That so?” He gives her a winning smile even though his heart is pounding, shoving his hands into the pockets of his skinnies. “Or is your client’s inappropriately familiar behavior with me making _you_ uncomfortable?”

She blinks, as if he wasn’t supposed to respond in a coherent, complete sentence. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t envy you your job, you know,” he says, leaning a shoulder against the cinderblock wall. It’s just a cinderblock wall, he tells himself. Like school. And this woman used to be one of the girls who cooed too high-pitched over him in the halls, and sneered when his back was turned. The door to the green room cracks open a bit behind her, and he thinks he can see a flash of white t-shirt and curly hair beyond it, but he isn’t sure. “Bullying a bunch of kids so they won’t cause trouble, for the greater good of a record label that probably doesn’t pay you enough either. And I imagine, the performing arts being what they are, that a bunch of your friends are queer, or you’re queer yourself, and you don’t _want_ to be doing this, but you have to make a living and you tell yourself you’ll pave the way when you have enough money or power or whatever, and that really, you’re just protecting him anyway, but in the meantime you’re just following orders and cockblocking some guy at a party for no reason. I’m not going to sell the story, and I’ll leave if it makes his life easier, so you might as well let me back in to say good-bye, at least. That’s all. I just want to say _good-bye_ , all right?”

She stares at him, but before she can draw breath for a comeback, the door swings all the way open. Harry bursts out and grabs Louis’s hand, and he _runs_. Louis can’t do anything but follow. Harry is leading him through a maze of passages and unmarked doors, and before Louis knows it, they’re outside in a cool summer night, the light pollution glowing purple and otherworldly over their heads. Harry doesn’t stop, just makes a beeline for a tour bus. Before they go in, he stops, breathing heavily, looking down at Louis.

“Lou—” Harry starts, voice shaking. “I don’t—no one’s ever—this is—I don’t _do_ this. I’m not allowed—with boys, anyway, it’s different, I don’t—but just…”

Harry is kissing him instead of stuttering out excuses, clutching his shoulders and crowding him into the side of the tour bus. Louis cups his face in his hands and kisses him back, making it something less desperate. Harry groans roughly in his throat, pressing closer, no rhythm to it. When he pulls back, his eyes are wild and full of tears. “I heard what you said,” he chokes out. “About waiting, about being queer and saying you’ll make it better when you can, and I just…”

“I didn’t mean _you_ , love,” Louis says, pulling him in with a hand on the small of his back. “Harry, no, I didn’t mean it about you. You get to be out, or not, or whatever you want. That’s not something you owe anyone, especially with what you’re going through doing this whole…” He waves at the stadium rising next to them. “Her, and the rest of them? Yeah, they’re assholes. I know that because you were looking at them like you were scared, and that’s not right.”

“You were just… you were defending me,” Harry says. “I get tired of fighting, y’know? Like the jeans, and the… everything. This isn’t what I want to wear, what I want to _do_.”

“What do you want to do then, pop star?”

Harry bites his lip, but it’s around a smile this time. “Want to come in to my ever-so-glamorous bunk and I’ll show you?”

Louis thinks about the ramifications of this request for all of a nanosecond before he says, “Absolutely. Show me your etchings.”

Harry’s bunk is one of the upper ones, and he awkwardly gestures for Louis to get in first. It’s tight, and they’re a good bit off the ground. When Harry closes the curtain, it feels a bit like the world is gone, since the shades are down as well. Harry pulls out his computer and balances it on their legs. He opens a folder labeled _Styles Styles_ and Louis can’t help laughing at him. “Love a good pun,” Harry says. He shows Louis a bunch of pictures. Floaty shirts and skinny jeans, enough Gucci and Yves St. Laurent to make any self-respecting fashion fan cry loud, lonely tears. “Someday,” Harry says. “Someday I’ll get to dress like this, and paint my nails, and do whatever I want.” It sounds like a prayer murmured by a fanatic.  _Someday_.

Louis can hardly bear to look at this unlikely, gorgeous boy tucked up next to him. “You like nail polish and all that?”

“Love it,” Harry says, and there’s a note of challenge along with the certainty in his voice. “It’s important.”

“Yeah. I have all those sisters. Spent a fair share of time in nail polish and makeup.”

Harry whimpers. Louis laughs. “Like that, Harold? I wear panties half the time.” Another helpless noise from beside him. It makes him brave. “You should see me in El’s summer skirts, dancing around to your songs. White cotton. Flares out when I spin.”

“ _Fuck_.” Harry snaps his computer shut and slides it down the side of his mattress. When he twists, Louis is pulled in by the muscles in his back working under the white cotton. “Would you—do you think… canIsuckyouoff?” Harry’s flushed and his lips are wet. This isn’t an offer he makes often, Louis can tell. It makes him feel special, makes him feel cheap, makes him feel lucky for all the times he’s just been able to do what he wants.

It’s claustrophobic in this small space, snapshots and postcards tacked up around him. A life in miniature, soft duvet and throws, pillows bunched up like Harry cuddles them in his sleep. This is where Harry spends his alone time, where he wanks, and cries, and dreams, and hides, and Louis is an interloper. But Harry wants him here, and so he’s here for what Harry wants. There’s only one answer.

“Of course, love.”

Harry lights up, like he still doubted the answer. All clumsiness is gone—maybe Harry keeps it in his legs, Louis thinks, vaguely, as his shirt is unbuttoned and brushed open, revealing his utterly unremarkable chest and the swell of a stomach he can’t banish. Harry maps it with his hands and coos over it. Over all of him, hands sweeping, big and gentle. Louis is breathless thinking about that touch on his cock. Harry is this maddening combination of glee and concentration. He keeps looking at Louis’s face, a strangely personal softness competing with how clearly starved he is for this kind of touch. Louis wants to tell him it’s okay, he can just drink his fill, but he’s selfish. He wants it to be _him_ doing it for Harry, not just the fact of a boy in his bed.

“C’mere,” he says, shifting up a little more, so Harry has more room to kiss him, back bent, hands braced against the mattress and the wall. It’s awkward and reminds him of high school, and it’s perfect. He slides Harry’s shirt off, revealing a handful of tattoos and a toned body. Somehow, they work Louis’s pants down below his ass, and he’s never been more grateful for tight boxer briefs, because despite the self-consciousness, he knows what he looks like in them and an unbuttoned shirt, and Harry almost hits his head trying to shimmy down too fast.

“Fuck, sorry, I just—” Harry rubs his face against the bulge in Louis’s pants, curls bouncing. “You’re so hot,” he groans, exhaling over Louis’s covered cock like he can’t believe he gets to do this.

“If you want to do this, might want to speed things up,” Louis says, breathless. “Don’t know when they’re going to come back, yeah?” He meant it as informational, but the broken gasp and the way Harry’s hands tighten on his hips let him know he might have just struck a nerve. “Or do you want them to hear?” He hazards a guess, based on Harry’s entire career, and is proved right with another moan, right on his dick. “You want it, don’t you? Want them all to know you’ve brought a boy back to fuck you and there’s nothing to do about it because you want it, yeah? Want to be fucked just exactly how you want it, greedy baby? Nothing wrong with that.” Harry is staring at him, mouth open, hot and slack against his dick. Curls pushed to one side, eyes heavy-lidded, lips bitten red, wrecked from only this. Louis wishes they had the whole night, the weekend, the rest of his _life_ to explore everything that makes Harry tick in bed and out, because he’s already perfect.

“Want it so _much_ , Louis, please. Want to make you feel good.”

“Bet you say that to all the boys,” Louis says, sliding his hand into his boxers and squeezing the base of his dick none too gently at all.

“Only the ones I want to call daddy.” Harry freezes, like he wasn’t quite intending to say _that_ , and Louis has to squeeze his dick again, because really. What is Harry Styles? _A one-night stand, so come on, Tommo. Give the man what he wants_.

“Oh, is that what you want?” He reaches down with his other hand and grips Harry’s chin. “You want daddy’s cock, is that it? Been waiting, yeah? Such a good boy.” He knows how to do this particular thing, enjoys it, quite, although usually it’s with men a third again his age who find the idea of being topped by a random twink unbearably exciting. It’s different like this. Harry emits a loud, airy whine and goes for Louis’s dick, but Louis tightens his grip. Harry flounders in the duvet, nuzzling his face into Louis’s grip and twisting his head so he can rub his cheek against what is now legitimately one of the most intense erections Louis has ever had. His entire body feels taut, focused on the heat of a warm squirming boy between his thighs.

“Get it out,” he says. “Waistband under my balls. There’s a love.” Giving orders involving his balls feels silly, but Harry rushes to do it, so careful not to snap the elastic, to _please_. Louis should feel exposed, and he does, but he also feels like a king, reclining as he’s serviced by the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. He imagines Harry’s nails painted in all kinds of bright colors, easier to see in the dim little reading light, and his dick twitches. Harry stares at it, then at Louis’s face, and back to his cock like he’s memorizing it.

“May I?” Harry whispers. “Please?”

“Please what?” Louis insists, because that’s the way this game is played.

“Please, Daddy,” Harry breathes, and it doesn’t feel so much like a game any more.

“Yes.” Louis keeps it curt, because if he doesn’t, he might cry at the way Harry isn’t holding anything back, at how much he wants and fears for this intense, incredible boy. “Make it good,” he says, as if he has doubts. As if Harry has failed him before. Lies, lies, vicious lies, because if he doesn’t lie, he might want the truth and he can’t have it. He looks down at the picture, mind racing. He wants this to be better for Harry, and he sees Harry’s hands bracing on his thighs, over his suspenders… He reaches down and loops one suspender around one of Harry’s wrist a few times, does the same on the other side. Harry gasps, going boneless, except where he’s clearly grinding the bed. Louis holds the moment, drops the act just long enough to say, quietly, “Yeah?” A quick, joyful nod from Harry breaks the spell and Louis pulls authority around him like a cloak and gets it going. As much as he wants to keep Harry like this forever, they really don’t have time.

Louis feeds his dick into Harry’s waiting, wet mouth, one hand on the base and the other tangling into Harry’s curls. Harry sinks down until his lips meet Louis’s hand, pushing against his fingers like he wants to deep throat him straight away, and Louis pulls him back with a sharp tug. “You know Daddy likes some attention on the head right off, baby, don’t be greedy. I’ll give it you when you earn it.”

The vibrations of Harry’s choked-off moan around his dick gets into his spine. He lavishes attention on the head, alternating tight, closed-mouth sucking like it’s the only way he’ll eat today, and sloppy tongue. He keeps pulling away to rub his face all over it, drawing trails of spit and precome all over his cheeks and up into his hair. He watches Louis while he does it, eyelashes fluttering, desperate to please and desperate from pleasing. “Daddy, be so good for you, always, missed you so _much_ , _Daddy—”_ and Louis can’t take it, can’t take being missed, thinks he’s going to miss this boy for the rest of his life, so he lets him have what he wants and shoves his dick in, chokes Harry down on it until all he can feel is hot, wet pressure around his cock that seems like a twin to how it feels behind his eyes.

Harry writhes on him, gagging, refusing to lift up on his own, making Louis drag him off. He’s red in the face, spit on his lips, tears on his cheeks, begging for it as soon as he can draw breath, _please, please, again, again, please Daddy_ —

“You’re gonna fuck Daddy’s cock with your pretty mouth, baby,” Louis says, without thinking about it, but the look Harry gives him suggests very strongly that Harry thinks he’s a genius. “Just keep your throat relaxed, you have to sing tomorrow, remember?” Harry makes a face, and Louis can’t help laughing, and Harry pouts again. Louis taps his full lower lip with the head of his cock, and Harry slides his mouth down again with a rumbling noise in the back of his throat.

Louis can’t fight off his orgasm any longer, so he lets the building awareness in his thighs and the small of his back take him over, keeping one hand tight in Harry’s curls as words spill out of him, _so good, so wet and tight, so fucking good for me, sweet boy, my sweet love, just like that_ and he tries to pull Harry off before he comes down his throat, but Harry has other ideas. Hedoesn’t budge, only sobs as Louis tugs his hair and tongues the head hard as Louis pulses out what feels like a pint of come. The feeling goes on and on, Harry refusing to stop suckling him until Louis gasps out that it hurts. Harry doesn’t even let his cock slip out, keeps it in his mouth and stares up at him with his head resting on Louis’s inner thigh, completely fucked out.

They stare at each other. It’s a little hard to remember what breathing is for, why it’s necessary at all. Finally, like any sudden movement will shatter it all, Louis strokes Harry’s sweaty curls off his forehead.

“Come up here,” he says, voice cracking. He feels oddly young all of a sudden, stripped bare. Harry moves slowly, clearly exhausted now, and Louis feels a little guilty for no reason he can easily define. Maybe because he knows he’s going to leave soon, and Harry knows it, too, and there’s a reason people negotiate scenes beforehand, so a person doesn’t promise things in the heat of the moment, things like _mine, my good boy, Daddy loves you_.

But Harry curls into him, loose everywhere but the truly massive cock pressing into his hip. Louis gives it a squeeze, and Harry jerks. “Almost too tired to come,” he says, shyly, head in Louis’s shoulder.

“I’ve got you. You were so good. Just… get your pants down for me, yeah?”

“Okay, Daddy,” Harry says, breathy, and even though Louis doesn’t think this is such a good idea, he _wants_. Harry squirms his pants down, and Louis gets him in his hand, cock damp with sweat and slippery around the head from precome. He starts talking as he touches him, gentle and inexorable.

“You feel so good. You’d feel so good inside me, yeah? Splitting me open, filling me up, get you in a cock ring and forbid you to come until you’d got me off a few times with that beautiful dick of yours.” Harry whimpers low on every breath. Louis wraps his arm around Harry’s neck and slips a couple fingers into his wrecked mouth. “Shh, just feel good, love. That’s all you need to do. You made me feel so good. So easy for me, aren’t you? So very good.”

When Harry comes, it’s on a sigh, curling so tightly into Louis. He hardly moves when Louis offers his come-covered hand for Harry to clean, just licks at it, making more of those small noises from when Louis was jerking him. He seems surprised when Louis kisses him, chasing the taste of him, remembering that this isn’t forever.

The luck that has run this peculiar evening holds, because they’re fully clothed by the time the door to the tour bus opens. Louis is hidden by Harry’s body, but he tenses anyway, because Harry shouldn’t be disturbed like this if he doesn’t want to be. Harry, though, sits up and scrubs his hands over his face. When he smiles at Louis, it’s tired, but real.

“You in here?” Niall asks. “H?”

“Yeah, m’here,” Harry says, and Louis winces, because his voice is _wrecked_. Harry just grins and shrugs a shoulder.

“Jesus, were you cryin’ all this time?” Niall asks, sounding really concerned. Louis, too, is concerned, because if _that_ was Niall’s first thought, if this is what Harry sounds like when he _cries_ , then—

“Not really,” Harry drawls, poking his head out of the curtain. There’s a beat, and then Niall snorts, pretty happily.

“All right. Wait—is he still here?”

Harry nods.

“Uh, hi, Louis.”

“Hi Niall,” Louis sing-songs, because this is not his first time at this particular rodeo, even if the location is usually very different. He likes that Niall doesn’t sound as practicd at it. Even though he should not like it.

“All right, you fuckin’ idiots, we’re about to go to the hotel. Louis, lie low until we get there and we’ll just make sure you have a minute to sneak off, yeah?”

“Thanks, Niall.” Harry closes the curtain. “Niall’s the best.”

“Yeah, sounds it,” Louis says. He’s prepared for a certain level of awkwardness, but it still hurts when that’s what he sees in front of him. “Look, I’m not going to tell anyone about this. Ever.”

So many emotions pass over Harry’s face, Louis doesn’t know what half of them are. “I didn’t think you would… but I guess it’s still nice to hear,” Harry says, quietly. “I don’t, um. I don’t do this. Much at all. So.”

“Look, me neither, I mean… it’s something I do enough to know _how_ to do, clearly, but…” Louis takes a deep breath. “This is… this was special. You. You’re special. Don’t let anyone take advantage of you for this, okay?” Harry seems confused, but Louis barrels on. “You’re perfect. Really. You’re just—perfect. At what we just did. And you’re so—so precious, it’s _precious_ to be the way you are, and want what you want, and just… go for it. Don’t let anyone ever make you feel like it isn’t. Maybe in bed, for a minute, for fun, but not where it counts, all right? Don’t…” He trails off, face hot. “Don’t let a stranger take advantage of you.”

Harry regards him with an unreadable expression on his face, and then barrels into him in the small space, kissing him so fiercely Louis is pulled under, and they only break apart when they hear voices again. Harry gets Louis flat on his back, curls up to his side facing away from the little hall between the bunks. “Just let me hold you, okay? Until we get back to the hotel?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, not really trusting his voice to say more. “Yeah.”

“You’re amazing,” Harry whispers, sneaking his hand onto Louis’s belly. “Just the most incredible person. And not just because we fucked.”

“How would you know?” Louis says, half-teasing. “Maybe we just watch the same porn.”

“I know. Besides,” Harry holds him tighter. “That was amazing sex, but if I watched porn, it would be of this.”

“Cuddling porn?”

“Oh, yeah. M’favorite.”

They dissolve into quiet, choked-off giggles, but the thing is, Louis doesn't really think Harry's joking at all.

 

When they pull in to the hotel, Niall hustles everyone out so that Louis and Harry can have a minute. There’s a wild moment where Louis wants to ask for Harry’s number, but a shutter has come down behind Harry’s eyes, a bit, as he squeezes him good-bye. “It’s just not a good idea to… get attached,” Harry says, and Louis nods. Harry may not do this much, but he does it. Louis trusts him to know what he needs.

“It’s okay,” he says. “But here.” He takes a Sharpie and writes his number on Harry’s arm. “Look, what we did was intense, and just… if you need anything. Text me. I mean it.”

Harry bites his lip and smiles, squeezes Louis’s hand around the wristband from the concert. “It was really nice knowing you, Lou.”

“You too, Hazza.”

They walk away from each other, and if they look back at the same time, well.

“Hey, pop star!” Louis shouts, across the parking lot. Harry turns around. “Your ass looks fine in those jeans!”

Harry’s smile could light up the night. He waves, and if Louis is crying for some weird reason as he keeps walking, at least it’s mostly happy tears. Because sometimes things like this happen. Stories he can never tell, and wouldn’t want to, anyway.

 


End file.
